The Night Market – Part 2: The Bridge Over the River

The wallet turned up the next morning, in the lost-property office of the metro station, with a note in neat English from a cleaner who had found it under a bench. Every card was still inside, and the cash was untouched, except for a single crumpled ticket for the noodle stall on Yongkang Street.

Mei stared at the note. Then she looked at Kai, who had been waiting outside with two coffees and an expression of enormous, elaborate innocence.

"You planted it," she said.

"I did not," said Kai. "I'm a terrible liar, remember?"

"You're an excellent liar."

"That's a compliment, from a food writer," said Kai. "I'm told it's the same as saying I'm very good at seasoning."

They went to the noodle stall on Yongkang Street, because the ticket was for two bowls of beef noodle soup, and because Kai insisted it was the only correct way to celebrate the return of her wallet. The noodles were rich and hot, the broth dark and deep with star anise, and Mei ate with her whole face, the way she had not eaten in months.

"You're happy," said Kai, watching her.

"I'm eating beef noodles at nine in the morning," said Mei. "Of course I'm happy."

"That's not the reason."

She set down her chopsticks, and looked at him properly. He had a smudge of broth on his chin and the same mischievous light in his eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Did you really find my wallet, or did you just want an excuse to take me to the market?"

Kai laughed. "I found the wallet," he said. "It was under the bench. But I didn't give it back until last night, because I wanted one more evening to show you the city."

"That's not very professional."

"No," said Kai. "It isn't."

They walked to the river in the late morning, through streets full of scooters and laundry hung between buildings. Kai led her up a set of narrow steps to a footbridge over the water. At the top, the city opened out before them: rooftops and temples and towers, the mountains blue in the distance, the light sparkling on the river like a handful of coins.

"You weren't joking," said Mei softly.

"I never joke about views," said Kai. "Only about food."

She leaned on the rail, her shoulder almost touching his. The wind carried the smell of frying dough and river water.

"Kai," she said. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"What do you want from the rest of this week? Not the tours. You."

He was quiet for a long moment, watching the water.

"I want to keep showing you things," he said at last. "And to be honest with you about the ones I'm scared to show. I've been a tour guide for six years and I've never once wanted to stay."

Mei's heart gave a small, sweet jump. "Then stay," she said. "For the week. And if you're brave enough, tell me one thing that scares you, every day, until I run out of questions."

"Deal," said Kai, and turned to face her fully. "Can I kiss you, Mei? On this bridge, with half of Taipei looking the other way?"

"Yes," said Mei. "And if I say stop, we'll still eat dumplings for dinner."

"Dumplings are non-negotiable," said Kai, grinning, and then he kissed her.

It was warm and quick and a little bit surprised, tasting of coffee and noodle broth and the sweetness of the morning. Her hand rested on his arm, and his fingers found her hair, gentle and sure. When they parted, the sun had come out fully, and the river was blazing silver below them.

"Green?" he asked, low.

"Green," said Mei. "Very green. Now show me the next thing I'm going to write about, and make sure it's not dumplings."

"It's dumplings," said Kai. "I'm sorry. It's always dumplings."

She laughed, and took his hand, and they walked down the steps together into the bright, busy city.